


The Best Little Diner In Jersey

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: AU, F/M, I am unrepentant trash, there's always another AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: When you're here, you're Bub.(or: there's this one particular regular at the diner, and Brad can't quite figure her out.)
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 20
Kudos: 131





	The Best Little Diner In Jersey

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to 40millionyears and professortennant, who are both excellent.

Brad doesn’t want to toot his own horn or anything, but his diner might just be the best one in Jersey.

Well. Bub’s is both his and Vinny’s, if he’s being accurate. They _did_ open it together. But Brad’s the one who came up with the name (“It’s perfect, Vin! When you’re here, you’re Bub!”), so he’s pretty sure that means he gets 51% of the credit, right?

It ain’t fancy food, but it’s _good_. Good quality bread and meats, nice fresh veggies, good herbs and spices, and it’s all prepared as fresh and careful as possible. They don’t do the fanciest coffee, but they get good quality beans and roast them in-house, and if that ain’t enough, Brad makes his own kombucha, too.

They’ve been open for a couple years now, and they’ve got a pretty solid customer base. The diner’s right in a sweet spot, close to the ferry terminal to Manhattan, so they get a nice early breakfast crowd, and a pretty sizeable dinner crowd, too, especially during the week.

Brad’s a people person. He’s always been a people person. How else is a guy gonna get dirt-cheap prices on local produce and top-level beef? By being a pal, that’s how. He knows their suppliers, and more than anything, he knows the regulars. They have plenty of suits who stop in, briefcase in hand, who ask for coffee and breakfast sandwiches without sauces to drip on their sport coats. Women in nice dresses and skirts and sneakers, heels peeking over the top of their bags. People in scrubs, people in uniform polos with various logos, and the occasional tourist with flat Midwestern vowels who stops to hold the door for everyone and says _ope, sorry!_ when other people bump into him.

There’s one regular he can’t quite figure out, though.

She’s a petite woman with big, soft dark eyes, and dark hair with a few streaks of white. She’s pretty; her smile is a little shy, but she’s always perfectly polite to the staff, and from what he hears, she tips well.

He likes her – so what? no big deal, it’s fine – but he can’t quite get a read on her.

She usually wears jeans, sometimes even t-shirts, even during the week, so she’s definitely not a financial person, or legal, or any of the white-collar groups he sees come through to take the ferry over to Manhattan.

She dresses more like one of the creative types. But he doesn’t think she’s a painter. She doesn’t carry an instrument case or music, so she’s probably not a musician. There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on, though. She’s _smart_. They’ve barely talked more than _Good morning_ and _Thank you_ , but she carries herself with poise. She’s pleasant, and there’s a kind of precision about her.

Brad knows a few things about her, though. If she just gets coffee, she takes it to go. Sometimes, though, she’ll get coffee and one of his sandwiches – tomatoes and ricotta on toasted garlic flatbread, or a good hearty bagel sandwich with the gravlax he cures himself – and then she’ll eat her breakfast at a table near the window, wipe the crumbs from her hands, and work on her laptop for a while.

Sohla reports that this woman is always happy with her breakfast – never once has a complaint about the food, which is pretty damn great – but she usually takes apart the bagel sandwich and puts it back together slightly differently, which Brad finds oddly endearing.

Nothing weird about it. He’s just being a good proprietor, and if she happens to be pretty, well, he just can’t help that, can he?

* * *

Brad’s usually in the kitchen, but one morning Sohla’s out bussing tables, so he’s behind the register when his mysterious, pretty regular shows up. When she sees him, she beams. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’, lady! What can I get ya?”

She wrinkles her nose in amusement. “ _Lady?”_

“Hey, what d’you want? I don’t know your name. Gotta call you something,” he points out.

“It’s Claire.”

“Claire. Claire!” He likes it. “Okay, Claire. What can I get ya?”

“Just coffee, please.” She must have to get to work.

When she reaches out to hand over her money, Brad raises his eyebrows. “You’re a lefty, huh?”

“I – huh?” She looks down at her outstretched hand, like it hadn’t even occurred to her. “Oh. Yeah, I’m left-handed.”

“Real southpaw, here. Y’ever play baseball?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, amusement written all over her pretty face, and yeah, he’s babbling a little, but c’mon, she’s pretty and charming and he just learned her name, okay? “No.”

“Aww, missin’ out, Claire. Southpaws make great pitchers.” He has no evidence to back this up, but she’s still smiling at him, so Brad’s pretty sure it’s fine. “Here ya go – there’s your change, let me go grab your coffee for ya.”

When he hands over her cup, she pauses for a moment. “Are you Vinny or Brad?”

The question catches him off-guard, but then he remembers the sign on the front of the register, facing all the to-go customers: _Thanks folks! Stop in again! – Brad & Vinny._

“Do I look like a ‘Vinny’ to you?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. What does a ‘Vinny’ look like?”

“Not like this,” he informs her airily. “I’m the Brad half of the equation.”

“So, you’re saying, you’re _Brad_ to the bone?”

She’s giggling at her own joke, and holy shit, it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

But he needs to save face, so he holds out his hand. “Give me your coffee back. You’re banned for life.”

She hugs it to her chest. “No. That was funny. Admit it.”

“ _Terrible_ joke, Claire. _Terrible._ ”

Her eyes are sparkling. “I think it was great.”

“She’s right, Brad,” Sohla tosses back over her shoulder as she carries plates back into the kitchen for washing. “No worse than your jokes, anyway.”

Claire looks delighted, and Brad can’t help feeling suddenly, intensely happy about it, even as he feigns indignation. “Wow. _Wow_. Really cut me down there, Sohla. Remind me why I hired you?”

She pokes her head back around the kitchen door. “Because I’m awesome, remember?”

Brad sighs noisily. “Everyone’s just gangin’ up on me today.”

“Yeah.” Claire’s still beaming, even as she checks her phone. “I have to go. But thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime, Claire With The Bad Jokes.”

She fixes him with a downright impish look as she leaves, and Brad feels like about a million fucking bucks. Maybe two million.

He knows her name now.

 _And_ he made her smile.

* * *

A week later, Brad’s back behind the counter when Claire walks into Bub’s and orders coffee and one of Sohla’s new creations: light, flaky cheese biscuits, some Hungarian recipe she’d tried out. Brad’s already eaten four, and he plans to steal another one. They’re delicious.

Sohla hurries off to get Claire one of the fresh biscuits she just pulled out of the oven, and Brad fixes her coffee just the way she likes it. Claire likes milk in her coffee. A pretty decent amount of it, actually. And she always seems excited that he remembers her coffee order.

She takes the cup he hands her, but hesitates for a moment. “You, um – I like your hat.”

His hat?

Brad raises an eyebrow. “It’s just a baseball cap.”

She shrugs, her cheeks faintly pink, and _God_ she’s just the cutest thing. “Well, I like the color. It makes your eyes look really blue.”

Sohla hurries back with a cheese biscuit, carefully wrapped, and Claire takes it with a smile, turning to leave.

Brad watches the door shut behind her, and turns to Sohla. “Hey, Sohla. You like this hat on me?”

Sohla tilts her head, looking at him curiously. “It’s fine, I guess. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Huh.”

* * *

Brad doesn’t miss Claire on the days she doesn’t come in.

He doesn’t, really. He doesn’t keep one eye on the front door. He doesn’t listen carefully while he’s back in the kitchen.

That would be ridiculous.

And because of that, he _definitely_ doesn’t brighten up whenever he sees a flash of white-streaked dark hair outside.

He sees it one morning as he’s wiping down the counters, and he straightens up, twisting the rag absently into his hands. When she walks in, he does a double-take. “Ooh, Claire, I like the haircut!”

She beams at him, her dark eyes sparkling as she brushes her now-chin-length bob absently with shy hands. “Thanks.”

“Very chic, Claire.” He frames her with his hands, pantomiming some kind of camera, and the grin he gets from her in response is stunning. “ _So_ nice.”

“Thank you.”

She walks out with her coffee a few minutes later, still smiling, and Brad could swear that she pauses at the front door just a minute, glances back over her shoulder, and waits to catch his gaze before she leaves.

* * *

It takes another month for Brad to figure out that Sohla’s deliberately going out to take care of the dining room when she sees Claire walking up, leaving Brad alone behind the counter.

And Sohla, bless her heart, is too honest to deny it when Brad brings it up. She just shrugs. “Claire likes you. She _always_ flirts with you.”

“She doesn’t –”

“Brad.” Sohla plants her hands on her hips, looking up at him with sheer amusement. “You may as well be chasing each other around the playground at recess.”

Brad walks away, grumbling something about nosy waitresses who should leave their bosses’ personal lives alone. But Sohla just laughs, because she knows he’s all bark and no bite.

(It occurs to Brad, eventually, that she might actually be right about everything.)

* * *

Brad’s cooking on the line with Vinny one evening, finishing up the last few tickets of the dinner rush, when Sohla pokes her head in. “Hey, Brad?”

Brad flips a serving of pasta expertly. “Yeah?”

“Is that table seven?”

“Yeah, right here.” He grabs one noodle to test. “Just about done.”

“That’s for Claire.”

Brad freezes. “Really?” Claire never comes in at night.

“Yeah.” Sohla shrugs. “She’s alone at table seven.”

Vinny leans in. “Who’s Claire?”

“A morning regular. Brad’s got a crush on her,” Sohla explains before Brad can deny it.

Vinny, of course, looks amused. “Really?”

“Not – no, Vin, c’mon. Sohla, you’re killin’ me, here.” Brad flips the pasta into a dish, spoons sauce over it, and rips up some basil leaves to sprinkle over top. “There ya go, table seven.”

Vinny wipes his hands on a towel. “So you got a girlfriend now? That what’s goin’ on here?”

“Oh, fuck off, Vin. She’s nice, that’s all.”

“Let me guess – she’s pretty, too, ain’t she?”

Brad glares at Vin. “You’re lucky we’re friends, bud.”

* * *

As Vin ducks outside to toss the trash into the dumpster, Sohla leans into the kitchen. “Hey, Brad? You want to go see if Claire wants dessert or something?”

Brad pauses wiping down the counter. He’s not following. “You want me to go out there?”

Sohla taps her hand on the doorframe. “Brad, just – trust me, okay?”

So once his hands are clean, Brad hangs up his dirty apron, straightens his cap, and heads out into the dining room.

Claire’s sitting alone at a table near the window, looking out across the water. As he gets closer, she looks up, startled to see him. And dark as it is out, he can see the way the lights glitter on the tear tracks streaked down her face.

She wipes her eyes hastily, and the smile she gives him is watery, but he can tell she’s trying. “Hi, Brad.”

Oh, great. Now he feels like an idiot. “Hey, Claire. How are ya?”

She lets out a breath, and for a moment he can see her thinking about brushing it off, but then her shoulders just kind of slump. “I just – I had a _really_ bad day.”

“Sorry.” It sucks. He can see the weariness on her face, and he doesn’t know a fuckin’ thing about whatever she does or what’s got her upset but he just wishes he could _help_ her. She brightens his day just by walking into the diner. He desperately wants to return the favor. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She smiles wryly. “Not your fault.”

“You, ah – you in the mood for dessert or something?” He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder. “Sohla’s been makin’ some tasty stuff. We got hazelnut brownies, we got some raspberry ice cream, there’s cookies –”

Her eyes light up, and he can see it, clear as day: she knows what he’s trying to do. “A brownie sounds great.”

Brad heads back to the pastry case and grabs one brownie, thinks for a second, and grabs a second one, which he wraps up while he warms up the first one.

He brings them both out to find Claire getting ready to leave; jacket on, bag packed. “Here ya go, hazelnut brownie. Even warmed it for ya.”

Claire tilts her head. “I asked for one.”

Brad just shrugs. “You seem like you could use a break today.”

“Can I –” She bites her lip for a second, and he can see the hesitation on her face, until finally she seems to decide something, looking up at him with those big doe eyes and he already knows that whatever she wants, he’ll give her. “I could use a hug.”

That takes a second to process.

“C’mere.”

He takes a step forward, she takes a step forward, and then he’s got his arms full of her. She’s so petite compared to him; he envelops her small frame without even trying. He’s pretty sure his shirt smells like roast beef and tomato sauce but she doesn’t seem to care. She buries her face in his chest, and he feels something powerful and warm twisting inside him.

He barely knows this woman. _Barely_ knows her. But he’s never felt quite like this before.

There’s a big crash from the kitchen, followed by what sounds like Vinny swearing, and as nice as the moment’s been, Brad has to go make sure nothing’s on fire, literally or figuratively.

* * *

Sohla rings everything up for Claire at the register, and by the time Brad’s back out of the kitchen, Claire’s outside, vanished into the nighttime.

Sohla looks up at him. “She said she loved my brownies.”

“Yeah?” Of _course_ she did. Claire’s made of sunshine, as far as Brad’s concerned. “Well, she should. They're awesome.”

“Thanks, Brad.” Sohla bumps his shoulder with hers. “I know you’re not a dessert person.”

“Not really, but that don’t mean I don’t know good food when I taste it.” Brad grins at her. “You keep baking that kinda stuff, we’ll keep serving it.”

She beams at him. “You’re the best boss ever.”

* * *

And then one night, everything goes wrong.

It’s a perfect storm.

Tuesday evenings are always a pretty decent crowd. The choir at Trinity United Methodist, just a mile away, likes to come over for dinner after they finish their rehearsals. The local Rotary club has meetings twice a month, and several of them will stop in. And as if that weren’t enough, tonight, the bowling alley down the street shut down their kitchen on account of some new, exciting kind of mold, so a big crowd of hungry bowlers has descended onto Bub’s.

The dining room’s hopping. And that would be great – Sohla’s there, along with two of the younger waitresses, and they’re able to keep a pretty good handle on orders – except Vinny’s out of town and their other two line cooks, twin brothers who live together, are both home with the flu right now, leaving Brad to work the kitchen. All alone.

It’s a fucking nightmare.

But he doesn’t have time to think about it. He doesn’t have time to think about anything other than the endless tickets pinned up along the board, dish after dish, and he’s a decent cook, he’s worked a line for years, but fuckin’ hell, a guy’s only got two hands and two feet and half a brain and there’s only so much he can do at once, okay?

No way out but through, he knows, so he just takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and starts working. Salads first; soup’s ready, just needs to be ladled out and seasoned. Sohla, bless her, has taken charge of the dining room, keeping the two younger waitresses calm and organized so at least everyone’s drinks stay topped up while they wait for their food.

Salads and soup go out. One round done. The tougher round starts now.

He flips marinated chicken and beef on the grill, yanks out a batch of fries before they get too burned, and he’s wondering which tickets to tackle first when he hears footsteps.

“Brad?”

He looks up to find Claire, of all people, standing behind the counter, tugging her hair back into a ponytail.

“Claire? What’re you doing here?”

(Why is she in his kitchen?)

“Helping.”

She grabs Vinny’s apron where it’s hanging up on the wall, tying it on – it’s way too big, it _envelops_ her tiny frame – and rolling up her sleeves.

“You – huh?”

“Front of house is slammed, and Sohla told me you’re all alone back here.” She pauses at the sink, scrubbing her hands with soap. “Tell me what to do.”

Right now Brad doesn’t have a whole lot of options, so, he figures – nothing to lose, right?

“Okay, uh – onions over there, for this sandwich –”

She scans the counter with quick, keen eyes, and nods. “Okay.”

* * *

She’s _incredible_.

Brad’s cooking at top speed, but he can see her working, and he knows with absolute certainty that no one chops onions that swiftly and evenly without training. He doesn’t have to tell her why there’s a book of matches in the cupboard in front of her; she grabs one, lights it, blows it out, and tucks it between her teeth as she slices the onions, warding off tears.

She’s oiling the pan, tipping in the onions to caramelize, turning the pan expertly over the flame. When she sees the load of dishes in the sink and realizes they’re going to need them, she hurries to scrub them clean, her hands moving so fast and skillfully that Brad’s just about ready to hang up his apron and tell her the place is hers.

He’s never cooked with someone so _seamlessly_. Even working with Vinny took some adjustment in the kitchen. But Claire moves quickly and easily around him, calling out her part of orders as she toasts bread and caramelizes onions and flips pans of pasta and sprinkles salt and lemon juice and cracked pepper over meat and veggies with clearly-honed instincts, and she never stops moving, even as she’s asking him what to tackle next. She even catches a meatball sandwich that almost goes out without aioli. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the range, a few errant strands of hair escaping from her ponytail, and she’s cooking and plating like she’s been here as long as he has.

There’s no time to stop and philosophize, though. They push forward, taking down ticket after ticket, and as chaotic as it is, Brad realizes, it’s _fun_.

* * *

Once the diner’s officially closed for the night, everything’s quiet and still and clean, Brad cooks them up plates of leftover pasta with olive oil and lemon juice and crumbled feta and some nice charred tomatoes, and the two of them pull up stools at the counter because, now that he has half a second to think about it, they never did eat dinner.

He pipes in Springsteen over the speakers, turns the lights low, sprinkles basil and oregano over their plates as Claire sets out clean forks, and if he squints, this kinda looks a little bit like a date, doesn’t it?

Brad takes a long swig of water, sets down his glass, and asks the question he’s been biting back all night. “Okay, so who the hell are you, Kitchen Batman?”

She chuckles. “I’m a chef.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He huffs. “You’re a pro.”

It’s not really a question, but she nods. “Yeah. Pastry, mostly.”

Oh, fuckin’ _hell_. “You went to some fancy culinary school?”

“Well – yeah.”

“Where?”

“Paris.”

Brad shakes his head. “You never said anything. I never knew.”

She just shrugs, her cheeks pink. “It’s not a big deal, Brad.”

“It’s a big fuckin’ deal, Claire!” He drops his fork with a clatter, ignoring the splatters of olive oil he’s getting on the counter he just cleaned. “Fuckin’ A, you got me second-guessing everything I’ve ever made for you now.”

“Okay, _stop_.” Claire sets a hand on his arm, and Brad has to catch his breath, because her hand is small and soft and warm and absolutely electric on his skin. “You’re a really good cook, okay? You are. Like this –” she gestures at her plate – “You just threw this together, right? It’s not a recipe?” Brad nods slowly. “Brad, it’s _delicious_. The pasta is cooked perfectly, the flavors are wonderful, you’ve got salt and fat and acid all balanced. This is something I’d make at home any day.”

Well, doesn’t _that_ make him feel all warm and nice. “Jeez, Claire.”

She’s not done being nice to him, and he hopes she never is. “I come here because I like it, okay? You make good coffee and really good food. That’s why I come here.”

The revelation that his pretty regular just happens to be a professional pastry chef who went to culinary school in fucking _Paris_ has him kinda off-balance, and hearing her compliment his food as like he’s her equal, like she considers him no less, no way inferior, just occupying a different space in the same industry – everything is bright and warm and contained and his heart is hammering double-time in his chest. 

He takes refuge in his pasta, because he’s starting to feel things he shouldn’t be feeling. “Hey, I like to know everything about my regulars, Claire. ‘Specially a wizard like you.”

That earns him her soft, girlish smile, the one that turns him to absolute mush. “Oh, you have a lot of regulars, huh?”

“Plenty of regulars, sure.” His mouth just keeps talking, and what’s worse, it’s telling the truth. “But you’re one of a kind.”

* * *

He insists on walking her out. “Least I can do. You really saved my ass tonight.”

She pouts, but doesn’t try to stop him, so he follows her through the shadowy dining room, through the weird forest of stacked-up chairs on tables and dull gleam of the unlit lamps.

It’s cool and breezy outside, a refreshing change from the heat of the kitchen. And there under the glow of the neon lights, he kisses her gently, without even thinking about it, because it just feels so _right_ he can’t help himself.

It’s the most careful, gentle, exquisite thing he’s ever felt.

He cradles her cheek with one big hand. She’s so small next to him, so delicate, and her mouth on his is soft and plush and tempting and he could stay here forever, drinking her in under the halo of the lights.

It’s _perfect_.

And then it’s not.

He can feel the moment she freezes, her body tense and trembling like a bird. She pulls away, her eyes wide, and his heart sinks. He can see the panic. “Claire –”

“I – I can’t,” she murmurs, covering her mouth with one hand like she can hide what they just did, “I _can’t_ , I’m sorry, Brad –”

She hurries off without a backward glance.

* * *

She doesn’t come in for coffee the next morning.

Or the next morning, or the next.

Everything else is fine, though. The diner’s doing great, staff are working hard, he and Vinny keep everything running smooth, and there’s no reason Brad should feel like he’s lost something he can’t live without.

* * *

A month goes by.

Then one day, Vinny’s sipping coffee in the back office as Brad runs through their supplier expenses. Broccoli’s cheap right now, and it looks like eggs are gonna stay low for at least another month. Pretty exciting.

The phone rings, and Vinny picks up. “Bub’s, this is Vin, how can I help you?” He falls silent for a moment, listening intently, and he frowns in confusion. “Uh – just one second, please.”

He covers the receiver and leans away from it. “Brad, do you know someone named Alex Delany?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

“Huh.” Vin goes back to the phone. “Okay, yeah?” The person on the other end says something. “Wait, so it’s called ‘One Of Everything?’ That’s the name?”

 _What is it?_ Brad mouths at him, and Vinny shrugs, mouthing back _I dunno_.

* * *

Alex Delany is a cheeky, friendly, fresh-faced kid who seems like he flips a coin every morning to decide whether or not to pop his collar.

He stops by Bub’s the next day and explains the process to them – as it turns out, ‘one of everything’ is pretty much exactly what it sounds like – and Brad and Vinny shrug. Okay. They can work with this. It’s a little different for them, but the publicity can’t hurt.

“So you bring your camera guys along?”

“Yeah,” Delany explains. “It’ll be two or three of them, depending on which rig we use. And I usually bring one of the other editors along with me, so there’ll be two of us tasting.”

Sounds simple enough, so they seal the deal with a handshake, and Delany grabs coffee and a bagel on his way out.

* * *

The big day arrives, and Delany shows up to Bub’s about ten minutes ahead of his camera guys. They introduce themselves as Matt and Kevin, offering Vin and Brad vigorous handshakes.

Matt seems like a winner, Brad thinks, but Kevin seems like trouble. Brad keeps an eye on him.

They start checking their gear, and Alex seems to have nothing to do but wander around looking cheerful.

Brad folds his arms. “Didn’t you say there was another person coming?”

“Yeah, one of the other editors. She’s on her way. Just running late.”

There’s a loud clatter, and they turn to find Kevin looking sheepish. “Uh, sorry. I knocked over a chair.”

He sets down his camera rig and reaches for the chair, and Alex just sighs. “Fucking _Kevin._ We love the guy, but he’s a pro at knocking shit over.”

“Oh yeah?” Brad _knew_ Kevin looked like trouble.

Delany nods. “Don’t ever let him near a dehydrator. He’s got a history.”

Delany wanders off to talk to Matt. Brad checks in with Sohla and Vinny – kitchen’s ready, they’re just waiting for the word and they’ll start cooking the breadth of their menu. It’s mid-morning – their quietest time, so there are only a few other patrons in the dining room – and there’s not much to do.

Brad checks his watch for the eighth time. They were scheduled to start filming fifteen minutes ago. “Hey, Delany, you sure your pal’s on the way?”

“She should be, she just texted and said – oh, there she is!”

Brad follows Alex’s gaze to the front door, and he could swear his heart stops.

Because that’s _her_.

It’s Claire – _his_ Claire – walking in, and she’s bright and beaming and just as impossibly pretty as ever. She’s wearing jeans and a soft pink sweatshirt, casual as anything, and oh _shit_ he’s completely, utterly hopeless.

“So I hear you’ve already met Claire Saffitz, right? She’s a food editor at Bon Appétit,” Delany explains. “She’s gonna be filming with me today.”

(A _food editor_. For Bon Appétit. Who studied in Paris.)

“Hey, Claire.” Brad’s pretty sure his voice sounds normal. Well, he hopes it does. “Long time no see.”

“Hi, Brad.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and is it just his imagination, or is that the same soft, shy smile she always used to give him, since before he got stupid and fucked everything up because he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her?

( _Is it okay, Claire?_ )

“Nice of ya to come back,” he offers. “We were startin’ to think you were boycottin’ the place.”

“Not at all,” she says. Her voice is so soft. Has it always been this soft? “I’ve been staying in Manhattan, so it’s a little out of my way right now.”

He has one hundred _thousand_ questions, but he’s not going to ask them in front of some hipster named Alex Delany who probably instagrams his vinyl albums and distresses his own jeans and waxes his mustache, so he just nods. “Well, nice to have ya back.”

“Are you kidding? Claire raved about this place,” Delany chuckles. “She’s the one who told me about it in the first place.”

“ _Really._ ” Brad looks at Claire, who has the good grace to blush.

“I just told him it’s the best diner I’ve ever been to,” she mumbles. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Did you just quote Star Wars at me?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

Delany, who’s been watching this exchange with increasing interest, clears his throat a little louder than he maybe needs to. “Claire, you want to go get your mic?”

* * *

Brad decides he shouldn’t hover.

He settles back behind the counter and tells himself not to stare at Claire. Apparently he’s not doing a good job listening to himself, because she seems to sense his eyes on her; she looks back, catching his gaze, and the smile she gives him is small and shy and tentative and hits him so hard he can’t breathe.

He looks down – fuck, he can feel his ears getting hot – and tries to figure out something to do. Instead, suddenly Claire’s standing right in front of him, lapel mic clipped to the collar of her sweatshirt. She looks hopeful. “Can we talk? I, um. I have a lot I need to tell you.”

“I – yeah, uh, sure. But don’t you –” he waves vaguely at her colleagues with their cameras and lights. “Don’t you have to get over there?”

“They’re still figuring out lighting.”

She sounds sure, so he decides to go with it. “Gotcha.”

“Do you mind – could we talk somewhere more private?”

He leads her into the back office, grabbing a sheaf of paperwork off the chairs so they can both sit. Even if she’s about to tell him _It was nice kissing you that one time but I would like my space, thanks_ , at least she’s being nice about it.

Brad folds himself into a chair across from her. It’s such a small office. How has he never noticed it before? But it just feels like he’s bumping into her every second, like he can’t get away from her, and he doesn’t _want_ to but he should at least try and guard himself from this charming woman whose knees are brushing his.

Brad takes a deep breath. Might as well start. “Claire, I’m sorry. I’m really –”

“No, Brad.” She waves a hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. _I_ did. It’s all my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs. “I didn’t tell you I was dating someone.”

“Oh.” He has the sensation that his heart has dropped straight out of his chest onto the floor, and he’s going to have to mop it up. “ _Oh.”_

“It’s not –” she pauses for a moment. “He lives in Jersey. I moved in with him.”

His heart has now slipped through the floor tiles and is working its way down through the foundation. And _that’s_ gonna cause serious damage.

(Why would a woman like this be single, anyway?)

“Remember that night I was here for dinner, and you caught me crying and gave me an extra brownie? We’d had this terrible fight, and I just had to get out of the house, and I ended up here for dinner.” She smiles, soft and rueful. “And you hugged me, and that was the best thing that had happened to me all day.”

His heart pauses its downward journey. Might not contaminate the groundwater just yet.

“When you kissed me –” She pauses, blushing hotly, but she’s clearly determined to get through this – “I felt guilty, oh my God, I felt _so_ guilty about it. And I wasn’t halfway home when I realized, it was over. It had been over. I was just too stubborn to see it.”

He doesn’t want to let himself hope, but he can’t help it. “What are you saying?”

“We broke up. I’ve been staying with friends over in Manhattan.”

“ _That’s_ why you’re not in Jersey.”

“Exactly.”

He doesn’t know how to feel. He feels too big, too tall, too bulky, too loud.

Claire must read it as deliberate distance, because she looks nervous. “And – I didn’t – I mean, I didn’t want to assume you still –”

“ _Yes_.”

She blinks. “What?”

(Oh. Maybe that came out a little more forceful than he was going for.)

“I do. Still. Yeah.”

Her eyes go even wider, all soft and dark, and her mouth makes an _O_. “You – yeah?”

He’s already reaching for her hand, tugging her out of her chair towards him, and even standing up, she’s barely taller than he is. “Get over here, Claire.”

Kissing her is just as perfect as he remembers.

Brad feels giddy and hot and hyperaware of everything. She’s standing between his legs, leaning into him, and he’s itching to just haul her into his lap and make a mess of her. And last time it felt like a dream, like something wispy under the pool of the lights, but now it’s so _real_. Her mouth is hot and eager against his; her small, delicate hands clutch fistfuls of his flannel shirt; and when he takes a chance to deepen the kiss, tracing his tongue over her bottom lip, she makes a soft noise, a little throaty whimper that escapes her, and it sets his blood on fire.

He’s about halfway to saying _forget everything else_ and pulling her onto his lap and wrecking her, but the sound of a cough from the doorway startles them apart.

They both look up sheepishly to find Alex Delany standing in the door, staring at them, his eyes wide.

After a long few seconds of everyone staring at everyone else, and Brad desperately trying to think of a rational explanation for this, Delany lets out a short laugh.

“Jeez, Claire. When I said we’re trying everything, I just meant the food.”

* * *

Delany and Claire sit at their table and taste things, chatting amiably to each other and addressing the camera, Brad and Vinny watch from behind the counter, safely out of sight.

Vinny tilts his head. “You know, when you look at it like that – we’ve got a great fuckin’ menu.”

Brad nods. “We sure do.” Everything looks great.

“So that’s your girl Claire, huh?”

“Yeah.” No reason to deny it. “She don’t live in Jersey anymore.”

“She’s nice,” Vin observes. “Really nice. And she’s pretty. I can see why you like her.”

Still no reason to deny it. And Brad doesn’t feel the need to. Because he and Claire are back to kissing, and that’s just about the best thing that’s happened to Brad all day. “She’s great. You know she went to culinary school in fuckin’ Paris?”

Vin whistles. “Fuckin’ A.”

“No kidding.”

“ _Way_ too smart for your dumb ass.”

Brad nods sagely. “Don’t I know it.”

* * *

After setting out the last round of dishes for the video, Sohla comes back to Vinny and Brad, grinning from ear to ear. “Claire _remembered_ me. She said my hazelnut brownies are amazing, and she gave me her _card_ –” Sohla fishes it out of her apron pocket – “and she told me to stay in contact. She’s my absolute favorite.”

Brad smiles fondly. Of course she did that. Claire’s a fucking angel.

* * *

Once the video finishes shooting – Brad’s really been trying not to eavesdrop, but they really seem like they’ve enjoyed the food, so that’s a relief – Delany is deep in conversation with Vinny, and Matt and Kevin start packing away their equipment.

Claire wanders over to where Brad’s standing behind the counter, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, arms folded.

“Hey, Claire.” She’s _so_ cute. “What’s up?”

“So I have get back to work this afternoon,” she says, looking nowhere near as casual as she’s trying to be, “but, um, do you maybe want to get dinner with me? Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She looks a little surprised. “That was easy.”

“For you, I’m pretty easy, Claire.”

She blushes furiously at that, but she’s beaming, and Brad’s not sure how else to explain to her just how fucking perfect she already is.

Claire snags his phone and types her number into his contacts. He steals one more kiss as she hands it back to him, and the soft, pleased sound she lets out might just be his undoing.

* * *

He waits an entire twelve minutes after she leaves before texting her, which he thinks is a pretty good testament to his self-control.

* * *

_three months later_

“Hi everyone. I’m Claire, we are at the BA Test Kitchen, and today, I have a guest.” She gestures a hand as Kevin turns the camera. “This is Brad Leone. You might remember him as one of the owners of Bub’s, from an episode of ‘One of Everything,’ and today he’s here to show us how to make kombucha.”

Brad feels a little weird about this whole thing, but he waves at the camera. “Hiya, folks.”

“So, Brad.” Claire leans on the counter, looking up at him. “Welcome to the Test Kitchen.”

“Thanks, Claire.” He grins at his girlfriend. “Let’s talk about this SCOBY.”


End file.
